Broken
by DiagonAli
Summary: George Weasley did not intend to connect with anyone at the annual Diagon Alley Business Owners event. He never intended to share his broken pieces with anyone. Certainly not Pansy Parkinson. Written for the Fairest of the Rare "Sing Me A Rare - Vol. 3" My song choice was "Broken" by Lonelytheband. My many thanks to my beta, WaywardDreamer, for her valuable input.


George Weasley wasn't a complicated man. He wanted good food, laughter, a quiet, comfortable life with someone to love. Fairly typical in that regard. Of course, if you were to look at him, a quiet life would never be something you would think of.

Tall, broad shouldered, fiery red hair that matched his family, his physical attributes alone made George Weasley stand out in a crowd. Of the many Weasley brothers, he wasn't the tallest nor the broadest. He wasn't the smartest or most ambitious. He was certainly one of the most mischievous, but as mischievous as he was, Fred had outranked him in that department. It had been ten years since he had lost Fred, and he was broken, fragile and unsure of who he was anymore.

Somewhere along the way, George had lost himself. He blamed the War, of course, but after a decade, the excuse had worn thin. He kept to himself, throwing himself into his shop and new ideas. He had expand the profitable business to other locations in England and had made great inroads with his connections throughout Europe. Business hours were filled with meetings and employees, his free time filled with the large family who would not let him alone, even when he wanted to be. Molly Weasley did not take 'No' very well.

Despite his introverted tendencies, George often dressed to make a statement. His suit this evening certainly was a statement, he reflected, and maybe that mischief wasn't managed after all. Bright colors danced within the seams of his magically altered suit. The bold, emerald green base wouldn't have been so shocking, but the Phoenix feather plumes that swirled and fanned across the fabric certainly drew the eye. Clever sewing charms, clever animation of the pattern and a not so subtle statement was made. It was a well crafted suit, and while the reviews were mixed, every eye in the room had given him an appraising glance.

Looking around the room, the party looked to be straight from the glossy pages of a gossip magazine. The venue was fabulous -- the penthouse suite atop the luxury apartments on the edge of Diagon Alley. Open concept living, complete with sweeping views of London's urban sprawl. Glittering lights illuminated the space, finely cut crystal flutes catching that light, and dazzling the eye. Beautiful people, wearing beautiful clothes, laughing their beautiful smiles. Behind the shutter of a camera, it was the perfect scene -- nothing in the room but opulence and ease.

George leaned casually against the bar at the side of the room, swirling his tumbler of whiskey in his right hand, left hand tucked into the waistcoat of his suit. On paper, George was a natural fit to this group of elites. Pureblood. Single. Self made millionaire. Driven and focused. Handsome, with a roguish charm. Charisma that drew people to him in spades.

The reality had a bitter tarnish to his shine. Blood traitor. Commitment issues. Nouveau riche. Motivation stalled to use his skills beyond a joke shop. One half of the Weasley twins who once dominated the halls of Hogwarts, and a mocking humor that often pushed people away these days, instead of drawing them near.

He pulled deeply at the whiskey in hand, wondering yet again what he was doing here. Theodore Nott was no friend of his, hobnobbing with societies best was the farthest thing from his mind. But Diagon Alley's Chamber of Business threw an annual event to rub elbows and pat backs, and as the sole representative of Weasley's Wizard Wheezes, he had no choice but attend.

In the ten years since the end of the War so much had changed while so much stayed the same. Burying Fred had shattered him, his heart crushed beneath that Hogwarts wall. Losing a twin was tragic, people understood and sympathized with him. They never truly understood, however, how alone he felt. Losing a twin was like losing a part of his soul, the other half of his sentences, the spark to his magic. Nobody could grasp how deep that pain went. For two years after the Battle, 93 Diagon Alley remained closed, and for two year he grieved.

Hermione had finally coaxed him from his room at the Burrow to join her in her therapists office. Trust Hermione to find a Squib therapist -- the grandson of Marius Black -- who had married a Muggleborn and knew all the events and players of the War. He could see the change in her and her honest smile, lighting her eyes, convinced him it was time to get help and start living. He still visited Dr. Black every 2 months -- it kept the demons at bay and the drinking to a minimum.

He heard Hermione's trilling laughter across the room, noting how many eyes turned to the sound. She was standing with her arm through that of her husband, laughing at something the Minister and other business people were saying. Theodore Nott teased her about something and he pulled her in closer to his side as the others laughed at his joke. Yes, much had changed in these ten years. His hand clenched tight as he remembered that while things changed, he remained alone. Constantly unattached. Never a half to a whole.

An alto, female voice came from his side, drawing him from his reflection.

"Chardonnay, please."

He turned to see rich, dark hair framing an elegant face. Petite features -- every ounce a pureblood princess. Perfect red lips pouted, matching red nails grasped her newly acquired glass, and large eyes turned up to appraise him. Eyes, he noted, that looked as incomplete as his own.

"Weasley," she acknowledged, "That suit is atrocious. It appears that money does not equal taste, after all."

"Ahhh, Parkinson. You are probably right. However, my tailors bill was steep enough for this outfit that I'm ever so grateful I'm sinfully rich. I'm sure my obscene fashion tastes can be forgiven if the pockets are open enough, correct?" He gave her a cheeky wink, turning back to face the room.

She rolled her eyes at his statement, looking at him as she paused. "I didn't come over here to heckle you about your trashy suit, though Merlin knows somebody needs to set it on fire. I haven't seen you at one of these business owner events before and I'm honestly intrigued. What brings you crawling out of the shadows and back into the land of the living?"

George stilled, indecision flashing across his face. This wasn't someone in his circle of trust, someone he knew to keep secrets. And yet, he saw a flash in her shuttered eyes that looked familiar. Pain, fear and the despair of being adrift in the world. Without thinking about the who and the why of the situation, George angled his body to face Pansy more directly and started to speak in a quiet, low voice.

"The life of a recluse business owner is terribly demanding you know. Piles of galleons to count, employees to manage, mothers to avoid. A change of pace is necessary once in a while, though." She abruptly snorted at his statement, quickly smothering her expression into one of bored politeness.

"And so from the goodness of your heart you decided to grace us with your loud suit and bitter smiles?" she sweetly suggested, a sharp smile up at him.

He barked a harsh laugh. "Hermione forced me here tonight. She's pestered me to come for years, but tonight she wouldn't accept any excuses. I … uh … I don't generally enjoy crowds … after, you know," he broke off with a grimace, and he noted the same look of distaste cross her features as well. "My, uh, my brother … my twin … he lived for this kind of attention. I was the inventor and he worked the crowd. Without him here, it doesn't feel …"

"Complete? Real? Right?" Pansy laughed hollowly into her glass as she finished George's statement. "Like you're living out a dream, except it's not a dream. It's taken a twist and now your life is a nightmare? Because if that's what your feeling, I can drink to that." The now empty glass set on the bar behind her as she motioned for another.

"Who did you lose, then?" George asked softly, accepting her statement and pushing through his own reminder of pain.

"Everyone. No one. Everything. Nothing. I don't know how to explain it." A nod to the bartender and another deep sip of the wine. "When you're known as the Girl Who Pointed Out Potter at the Battle, when you're a Slytherin, when your father, brother and some of your closest friends were Death Eaters, you find the world isn't very open to you and your dreams. I have my freedom, but Father is in Azkaban for life. I may not believe that Muggleborns should be killed, so now I have lost some of my oldest allies. The world goes on and … and when you've got no one to reach out to you, you find … you find yourself adrift, forgotten." A sardonic laugh and another deep drink of the glass, before Pansy turned to look up at George, arranging her face to an expression of vague happiness, and gave an airy laugh. "I mean, everything is so great. It's a wonderful time to be alive and I'm so grateful to be a part of this changing world."

"Hmm," he finally voiced, "you're rather broken, aren't you?" A flash of anger splashed across her face, and her mouth opened to protest, as he reached to tuck a strand of silky black hair behind her ear. " I like that you're broken, broken like me. Maybe that makes me a fool." They both stared, recognizing their individual shattered pieces and the mirrored pieces in the person across from them.

"Do you want to step onto the balcony for some air with me? I'm finding it stifling in here." Pansy set down her glass quickly and started across the room without waiting for a response, eager to distance herself from the emotions she discovered and the raw feeling of … FEELING that she wasn't used to dealing with.

Once outside, under the twinkling stars of a summer sky, shaking hands dug into her clutch, searching for her case of cigarettes and a light. Trembling hands, fumbling to spark a flame, were stilled by his large, rough hands. Her dark eyes turned up to his, accepting the light with unspoken thanks. She took a deep drag, feeling the smoke filling her lungs, the routine of deep breaths calming her more than the rush of nicotine. "Muggle cigarettes? Imagine that," he teased, lighting one for himself from an inner pocket of his jacket. "My Mum caught me smoking a few years ago and almost ripped my last ear off, screeching about nasty habits and how I should do better. We were always a disappointment to her, but with Fre -- him gone, it's just me to let her down, now." George took another drag leaning against the railing, staring out into the city. "What she doesn't know is that smoking is the least of my disappointing habits I've acquired since Hogwarts, and honestly, if it wasn't for Hermione guiding me to help, I would probably still be at the bottom of a bottle of Ogdens right now."

"Pills," she whispered, "pills for me. And potions. And apparating to the top of tall buildings and trying to find the courage to take a step. I haven't told anyone, though I think Theo knows. He's forced me into working with him at his Apothecary, keeping me busy as a silent partner in his business ventures. I introduced him to Hermione in our Eighth year when she and I were paired in Potions, and I assumed this was his way of saying thanks for helping him mend bridges with her. But now I think they were just trying to keep me afloat."

Pansy spoke quietly, looking down at the tips of her shoes peeking beneath her dress, unable to look him in the eye as she made the confession. She took a deep gulp of air before continuing, "I feel so lonely … so isolated. Sometimes it would be nice to just be … gone. To not feel and not worry and not endure the stares and empty smiles. To not think, or feel or remember."

George stilled, lowering the cigarette in his hand and turning to look at her. "Do you ever feel like you are in pieces, shattered and wafting away? And no one else can see it? That they can't hear the screams of pain when you laugh? Ogdens numbed that pain. Muffled the screams and even though I'm still so alone, at least I can't feel everything as strongly."

Her eyes turned up to his face and said, without malice, but deep with feeling, "I like that you're lonely like me. I could be lonely with you." She paused, struggling to say what she was really feeling, peeling back the pureblood mask for a moment to reveal her true self. This level of honesty was not who she was, and being honest with herself was something that Pansy avoided at all cost. "We could -- talk some time? Get a drink, or I guess dinner? I ... George, I don't do friendships very well. I don't like people. They are stupid, petty and painful. I have very few friends and while I hold them close, I don't let them in. I should hate you or push you away. My parents raised me to laugh and judge when I see weakness. Cultivate alliances or networks, but never cultivate friendship. Certainly never show weakness yourself -- that is begging to be exploited. Yet, there's something tragic, almost pure with you." She paused when she saw his eyes go wide with surprise and she quickly responded to his look of doubt. "Shut up, Weasley! I'm trying to be nice for once. There's something... Circe, I don't know! I suppose wholesome about you. Something sweet hidden in your eyes. I can honestly say there's no one like you. I'm drawn to your shattered pieces..." She glanced down scuffing her heel against the stoned balcony before glancing into his widened eyes. "They match mine.

The air was still around them, the tinkling laughter behind them ignored as they stared at each other. George opened his mouth, closed it again, swallowed and said in a rasp, "Yes, Pansy, I would like that. I've shared with my therapist that I feel like broken pieces of a whole. I was a vessel, made to hold love and life and now I'm shattered. My brother -- he was the glue that held me together. I've been trying to hold all those pieces together but they keep slipping away. My magic feels dull. My products lack imagination. And I swear to Merlin, talking with you, seeing you clutch to your own fragments, it feels like there was a couple pieces that fit back together. We can try to fix our broken pieces one at a time."

Pansy laughed at him, shrill and harsh as she wrapped herself again in the protective layer of her persona. "God, Weasley, you're a disaster. Honestly, who shares all that at a party to a virtual stranger?" Her eyes glassed over with unshed tears, quickly blinking to dispel them before they fell. With a delicate clearing of her throat, she looked up to him. "Lucky for you, next Thursday has suddenly become available on my calendar. My -- reliance on potions has lead me through some experiments of my own, and I remember from school some products of yours that were torture for us Slytherins. Maybe I can share a few ideas I've had that may benefit your business? My potions and your products -- who knows what we could come up with together?"

They both turned to stare at the skyline, both deeply uncomfortable with the emotions that had just been shared, the emotions that took them by surprise. They both recognized, however, that what just occurred was powerful, and that speaking it out loud, to another, was suddenly freeing.

It was the last thing either of them expected when they arrived at the venue that night, certainly with the last person they expected. Pansy laid her dark head against Georges shoulder as they contemplated each others words, a soft smile quickly crossed her lips. Lonely together, broken together. The future didn't seem so dim.


End file.
